


Rain and Hale

by rlnerdgirl



Series: The Domestic Life of Spies [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Derek gets an unexpected house guest, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, and Stiles does too, spy AU, the one where Derek and Stiles are retired spies, there's a storm, there's rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:58:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which there is a storm and Stiles gets an unexpected house guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain and Hale

When he jolts awake the room is pitch black and the only sound Stiles can consistently make out is that of heavy buckets of rain pounding down on the ceiling. Scrambling for his fall-water-wind-everything-proof analog watch on the nightstand, even as he throws his feet over the side of the bed and stands, tells him it's two-thirty-four in the morning. The Sheriff is standing, ears perked and alert, which tells him what woke him. The dog sleeps like the dead and it’s no wonder him stirring would be enough to rouse Stiles to waking.

 

Slipping his feet into the pair of loosely tied shoes tucked under his bed, he slips into the living room without turning on the lights, grabs the Ruger 1-S from the rack, and presses toward the front of the house. Soft clicking clatters indicate where the Sheriff is stalking through the room, moving to the back door before joining him at the front of the house, pressed to the wall beside the bay window, currently covered by a thick curtains in preparation for blocking out the fall-winter weather.

 

He’s about to pull back the curtains half an inch and take a glance when the bright white of headlights slice through the darkness, illuminating the curtains for a breath before passing and plunging Stiles back into darkness.

 

Well, at least that eliminates a hit squad.

 

Or not.

 

Straightening, Stiles heads to the front door, rifle still in hand because it would be just like someone with a sense of humor to play at an innocent not-professional-killers-drive-up to get him to relax before putting a bullet in his head. Stiles is familiar with the technique. He’s used it once or twice and, given the correct target and location, it works shockingly well. Doubt it, he is not the correct target and this is not the correct location—because so many other techniques would work so much better, particularly on a dark and raining night—but, he laments, not all the killers in the world are smart enough to deduce that.

 

Heavy steps tromp up the porch steps and up to the door before a fist pounds out three loud knocks and Derek says, “If you shoot me, I will rip your throat open with my bare hands.”

 

With a muted chuckle, Stiles unlocks the door and throws it open to reveal one sour, frustrated, and thoroughly soaked through Derek Hale dripping a small lake onto his already drenched porch. “Derek, what can I do for you this fine morning?”

 

Derek scowls, eyes the rifle in his hand.

 

“Hey, at least I’m not _aiming_ it at somebody’s face. I recall a neighbor doing that to me once and taking an amount of offense to it.” For a couple of ex-spies who should never have spoken, and definitely not be living as lake neighbors on the same mountain, Stiles is getting very familiar with Derek, his eyebrows, and his eye rolls. In light of the dripping and the wetness and the soppy hair, the man’s expression loses some of its heat. “Come on. It’d be poor manners to have you drowning on my porch,” Stiles sighs, turning around and walking back into the house to grab a couple of towels. He unloads the Ruger and puts it back in the rack on his way down the hall.

 

When he comes back, Derek is standing just inside the door, on the inside mat, which is now as drenched as he is, looking a little blue around the lips.

 

“Here you go.” He tosses two towels, not surprised when Derek catches them deftly. “I’m going to go to the kitchen and start making some tea, you’re going to strip down and then scuttle your naked ass to the bathroom while tracking the least amount of frigid rainwater on my floors as possible.”

 

Derek’s eyebrows go up, telling the story of how he’s not so sure Stiles is in his right mind for giving anybody orders.

 

“Hey.” Stiles raises a finger. “I’m not the one barging into someone’s house dripping wet and being threatened by pneumonia, am I? No. My house, my rules. There are some clothes in the bathroom that should fit well enough. Now, go to getting naked and I promise not to watch,” he says, holding up both his hands, fingers splayed wide. “See, no crossies. Come on Sheriff.” Slapping his leg he turns around and heads to the kitchen.

 

Tea, really, is the last thing he wants, but he can’t start a fire until Derek’s no longer naked in the living room, which, from the soft sounds of distress and past experience with the trials of wet clothing, is going to be a little while. So he fills the kettle with enough for two mugs and puts the flame on high.

 

When the murmurs of Derek’s distress settle and he hears the man move back into the house, Stiles steps back into the living room, collects the mess of sopping clothes, and quickly hauls them into the laundry slash mud room that connects the garage to the kitchen. A quick pat-down finds no stray materials in any pockets, and with that and a little detergent, the clothes go in the wash.

 

The kettle is just starting to howl when Derek walks into the kitchen, relatively dry and newly clothed with the Sheriff, playing loyal watchdog, at his heals. The too-large sweats Stiles bought before he realized that they were too large, and that he doesn’t actually like sweats, fit Derek perfectly. Unsurprisingly, Stiles’ two-times-too-big laze-around-the-house sweater fits fine, which is good, because he doesn’t need anymore distractions in a given night. Pouring two mugs of chamomile tea, Stiles nods his head toward the kitchen table, inviting the other man to take a seat before passing off one of the mugs.

 

“So. My house at two a.m,” he prompts, lifting his tea to his nose, content with letting the steam wash over his cold face and the smell lull him down from the adrenaline still sliding through his veins.

 

Curving his hands over the top of his mug, trapping in the heat and the steam like a little finger-tipi, Derek sighs. “A tree fell into my house.”

 

Stiles’ eyes widen. “A tree fell into your house.” It’s not the most eloquent thing to say. In fact, no, scratch that, it’s not eloquent at all.

 

The responding nod is sullen and sour. “Yes. Through my bedroom and the living room.”

 

“Holy crap. You’re lucky you’re not hurt.” Blowing on his tea, he goes for a sip and winces when he nearly sears his tongue off. “So… your place is just… getting thrashed by Mother Nature tonight?”

 

Derek’s responding grimace is answer enough.

 

“Ouch. Well, you’re welcome to my guest bed.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, unfolding his hands from the top of his tea to wrap around the mug and bring it to his lips. Unlike Stiles, the near-boiling temperature doesn’t seem to bother him. “I would have stayed, but the rain started to get into the kitchen.”

 

“Really, it’s not a problem. You read me an apple pie recipe, I lend you a bed for the night. Potato, potah-to, right?”

 

That unique, one of a kind, Derek Hale judgmental-sassy-amused look is starting to become curiously familiar, and in some small way endearing. “I’ll be out in the morning.”

 

“Derek Hale, in case you missed the memo, it technically _is_ morning. Also, if you’re sleeping in a guy’s bed, the least you could do is stay for breakfast.”

 

“I’m not-” Derek starts, searching Stiles’ face. It takes a moment, but he sighs, defeated. Why he still says, “It’s a guest bed,” is a mystery. The battle is won, and not by Derek.

 

Stiles shrugs. “Tomato, tomah-to,” he says, pushing his chair back and standing. “Your clothes are in the wash, in case you get up first and want to put them in to dry. Otherwise, finish your tea and have a good night. Hopefully your poor tree luck doesn’t follow you here, or I will be sourly disappointed and we will both be sleeping in our cars.” Mug in one hand, Stiles taps his hand against his leg. “Come on Sheriff.” The dog lumbers up from where he’d settled under the table, between Stiles’ and Derek’s feet, to pad over to his side. “Night.”

 

“Night,” Derek echoes, and Stiles can feel the pressure of his gaze until he disappears down the hall and into his room. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com/) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!


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